


My heart is stoned, and still it trembles

by Carmarthen



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: 19th Century, Canon Era, Crack, Humor, Javert's Confused Boner, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-06 22:02:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3149870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/pseuds/Carmarthen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Javert goes undercover at a Bouzingo party, gets stoned, and meets Enjolras. The experience is confusing.</p><p>Esteliel asked for "Undercover Javert confused by Enjolras' seductive trancelike dancing" and I did my best to deliver it in canon era. Complete crack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My heart is stoned, and still it trembles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/gifts).



> Thanks to sath for Amis handholding and Miss M for the title.

It had been bad enough that Javert could not turn down the punch pressed on him by some radical in an outrageous waistcoat (who assuredly lacked proper respect for law and king), lest he rouse more suspicion than his own sober dress had already done. He did not, as a rule, indulge in drink, and the punch—God knew what these lawless bohemians had put in it—burned in his belly and made the world tilt a little around him.

But then someone had passed him a foul-smelling pipe that produced an oily smoke like burnt grass and made his head spin and his vision blur, even as he coughed and sputtered. The student who had passed him the pipe, a long-haired fellow dressed like he’d stepped out of a painting, patted him companionably on the back. “Not used to hashish, old man? Perhaps you ought to commiserate with my poor friend Enjolras over there; I have, I fear, unfairly played upon his sense of amity in persuading him here.”

Just as Javert’s coughing abated and his vision cleared, his gaze settled on a young man wreathed in smoke, swaying vaguely to some music only he could hear—a boy with the marble brow and golden curls of an angel, his shirt open at the throat and cravat loose and untied, his waistcoat long gone.

And then the boy’s eyes met his, a distant blue gaze that held the madness of a prophet, and Javert shuddered, for what was a prophet but a destroyer of order? But his mission, so recently conveyed to him by M. Chabouillet, slipped away from his memory as water through a sieve, as the boy—Enjolras—slipped through the crowd towards him, still moving in that curious way, slim hips swaying like one of the public girls who plied their trade in the rue de Venise. It was an appalling affront to decency, and yet he could not look away, an unaccustomed flush heating his face, an even more unaccustomed tightness in his trousers filling him with horrified relief that the room was so dark.

In his trembling paralysis, he felt like the proverbial rabbit transfixed by the snake.

Enjolras gave them both a slow blink with heavy, golden-fringed lids, his full lips curving into a dreamy smile. “You did not tell me I would see such visions, Prouvaire,” he said with faint reproach. “I have seen eternity tonight—”

"My friend," said Javert’s companion, clapping Enjolras on the shoulder, "I hope you will not hold it against me. If always your severity were softened so, then who could fail to listen to your words?"

But Enjolras had turned to look at Javert, his eyes the bluest Javert had ever seen. What rot he was thinking, Javert thought, even as he leaned closer to hear the words issuing from Enjolras’ rosy lips. But as Enjolras spoke, a cold chill crept through him, a stark and terrible contrast to the heat that had suffused him before—that still suffused certain disobedient regions of his body.

"Citizen, have I told you about my mother? She is the Republic—"


End file.
